On The Eve of Ebola

Okay, so now, this doc in NYC who worked in Guinea and then came home to normal hustle and bustle of living in NYC you know like, cabs and trains and take out, fluff and fold, stops at a coffee truck and, of course, the bowling alley to play a few frames.   Seriously.  This man is a doctor and he knows he was to follow the WHO protocol for containment from the outside world for 10 to 21 days and he went bowling.  Ah, yes, as if that is the first thing he just had to do in order to carry on.  Like, hey, he dint buy dat bowling shirt for nothin, ya know?

I call this the Eve of Ebola, because it feels like we are certainly on the brink of outbreak.  It’s bad enough that there have been terror threats against military families in our country.  Yeah, like we’re supposed to make it not so obvious that we are a military family and we are supposed to “act vigilantly” according to a message to us from the POTUS , but the gates to the base we live on are still a Code Green.  C’mon folks, you should at least ramp it up a bit to a Code Orange.  That would be intelligent AND viligant at all the same time.

So, what are we supposed to do now?  Oh, right: Stay Calm and Carry On.  Suddenly, I’m thinking that I may have to keep a machete by the front door in case  a terrorist shows up at my front door.  Last night, we ordered a pizza and I was practically sweating thinking of all the possibilities of who or what I would be faced with when I opened the door.  Like, maybe I was expecting an atomic pizza.

So, how can we cannot be anxiety ridden at this moment?  I think we are at the point where the best course of action is “Smile and Wave, Boys–Just Smile and Wave.”  What happens tomorrow?  Will we be smiling and waving with utility belts packed with all sorts of gear to fight off terrorists (my belt will have a bottle of olive oil, a box of spaghetti and a head of garlic) AND Ebola.  I can see it now.  The dogs and I will have to walk in a whole hazmat suit, face, snoot and tail protection, three pair of surgical gloves, thigh-high rubber boots covered with another layer of  hazmat protection, disposable leashes, my utility belt, a borrowed gun a good loaf of Italian bread, and I’ll be puling the cart full of prepper gear I never bought.

Oh, how I wish we lived in Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood so I know what Lady Elana would do, or Miss Kitty.

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Article of Irony and a New Doctor

The fact that I open my browser and there is a link suggested regarding an MS article is nothing new.  Trackers have a way of knowing way too much about a person.  The irony of this article being the one of today’s click is that I just got back home from an appointment with a new, unsolicited, Internist.   Yes, TriCare switched PCMs on me yet again.

Well, this new Internist–let’s just call her ‘Noeyecontactmade’–did not even look at me when I entered her examining room.  In fact, her eyes stayed glued to her computer monitor even while she introduced herself me.  I had made the appointment for prescription refills, so she knew to ask me which prescriptions I needed new scripts for.  One was for thyroid medication and the other for 800mg Motrin (horse-sized pills).  Probably the top two meds which help me put my feet on the floor every morning.  She did some reading about me…..listened to my heart for no more than 2 seconds–so I am sure it was not possible to even pick up on whether or not I had a steady rhythm–then sat back down typed some more.  She looked over her shoulder, told me it was nice to meet me (yeah, right) and that she put the Rx I asked for in the system to be picked up at the pharmacy.

While she was reading about me, she had to have seen that I have an incurable disease, and perhaps maybe that triggered a lightbulb in her head as to why I take so many other meds, and to perhaps ask me why I even need 1,600mg of Motrin a day?  Nope.  Nadda.  Nothing.  No questions asked.   Take care; comb your hair.  I was there for the Rx and the Rx only.  She made that crystal clear.   I don’t really give a flying fuck, because she is a Resident here at the Army hospital and I know she’ll rotate out of here soon only to be replaced by another doc without any prior experience of having a good bedside manner.  I wish my neurologist would just prescribe the darn Synthroid like my former neuro did.  I can’t be bothered with this crap of going to these kid doctors whose only goal is to see the most patients in one day so that they can win the contest amongst their Resident peers.   TriCare: Quit wasting my time.

I walked out chuckling in disbelief.  I hope I never have to see that asshole punk Resident again.  Big fucking deal.   I hope the Surgeon General of the Army sends me a survey to fill out about this office visit.  And, I hope she does not include me in the tally of how many patients she saw today, because the bitch never looked me in the eye–making it impossible to include me as a patient she ’saw’ today.  So, here’s this article preaching about the importance of being your own best advocate when it comes to medical treatment.  No shit.  I’d probably be in a wheelchair, bald and have that thyroid disease brain fog rolling with me wherever I went if I were not the best darn advocate for myself.

MS Patients Must Take Charge of Their Care to Avoid Medical Mishaps.